‘Has Mademoiselle journeyed far today?’ the concierge asked, looking not at me but out of the window.

‘Not far.’

‘Where has Mademoiselle travelled from?’

I told him where I was from, though I could see from the flatness of his expression that he’d only asked for asking’s sake. He pointed me to a stairwell, directing me to go up one flight to the second floor. I collected my bag and headed up the stairwell, which was narrow and smelled vaguely of onion broth and tobacco, but was well lit with gas lamps. The paint on the walls was fresh. On Madame Debord’s door, a small brass plaque engraved with her name. I knocked twice, rapid and light. Quick footsteps and the door was answered by a girl only a few years younger than me, about fifteen years old. Her hair was twisted in a loose chignon at the base of her neck and she wore a simple cotton dress.

‘It’s you,’ she whispered, and waved me into the vestibule with a jerk of the hand, then disappeared behind the vestibule door. I remained there, holding my bag against my knees. A gilded clock ticked loudly on a marble-topped side table. The girl came back carrying a laundry sack over her shoulder.

‘Madame is having a nap but she’ll wake in an hour. She’ll want coffee and something sweet. You’ll find what you need in the kitchen.’ Without looking at me, she backed through the door and pulled it softly shut.

The clock ticked. To my left, a corridor with four closed doors and a kitchen at its end. From behind the door closest to the vestibule, gentle snoring, like a nesting pigeon. To my right, an oval mirror. I removed my hat and hung it from a hook next to the mirror, where other hats and scarves were hanging. My face shone with the grime of travel and my hair was a state, so I dropped my bag to the floor and tried to smooth it with my palms. This only made things worse.

I stepped out of the vestibule into the salon, which was high ceilinged and decorated with yellow wallpaper. Two tall windows adorned with heavy, dusty drapes. The room was comfortable, and not so choked with the gilt and knick-knackery I had been anticipating. Two simple settees and footstools, an odd collection of armchairs whose upholstery didn’t match and yet, somehow, still looked tasteful. A mahogany writing desk by the window and faded, silk-covered cushions on the settees. All the cornicing that was to be expected and a large mirror above the marble fireplace. An expensive but worn rug on a tired parquet floor that could do with a waxing. A chandelier. Something peculiar too: piles of newspapers stacked into the corners of the room, under the side tables and up against some of the furniture. Some piles partially avalanched, others weighted down with heavy glass ornaments. The newspaper on the top of the pile closest to me was dated only two days prior. I made my way through the room to one of the windows and pulled back the drape. Outside, flower boxes of pink and red geraniums, slightly gone to seed and with the woody, arthritic stalks of an unpruned plant that had survived at least one winter.